He wriggles with pleasure when we tell him he's our hero--no mean feat for a dog that carries 28 compact, densely muscled pounds around on five-inch legs.

Our hero bears little resemblance to the wet, frightened, mangy puppy who sat shivering in the scant protection offered by the bank's minuscule parking lot building one January morning in Phenix City, Alabama. He was all ears then, and eyes. Big, hopeful eyes that were such an odd shade of brown they looked old and knowing and nearly human.

We were on our way to one of those all-you-can-eat chicken places in the same shopping center. My husband and I were meeting there after our respective job-hunting forays. He was a painter trying to drum up business, and I was a lapsed journalist looking for secretarial work. Both of us saw the black dog. Both of us thought about him all during the meal. Neither of us mentioned him. When we left the restaurant, Randy went straight to the bank to see if the puppy was still there. The last thing we needed was another dog, and a sick one at that.

I did not intend to rescue the dog, but I know that if Randy hadn't picked him up, I would have. I followed my husband's car to the nearest veterinarian's office. My husband took off his only coat, wrapped the mangy little animal in it, and carried him inside.

The mutt, we were told, was about three months old, had a bad case of mange, and had probably been beaten. It would be kindest--and cheapest--to put the animal out of its misery.

Randy looked at me. I had watched him drive down the road with the drenched puppy cradled beside him. I had seen my husband's head move as he talked soothingly to the dog. I knew better than to say no.

"Do whatever needs to be done to make him well," my husband said. The vet sighed, warned us again of the cost, and reached for the puppy.

And was promptly bitten.

We were all startled by the speed of the sick dog who had been sitting so lethargically on the examining table leaning against my husband. "What a grouch," Randy said after apologizing to the vet for the puppy's ill manners. After that, there was little doubt about what the dog's name was going to be.

Randy held a snarling Groucho still while the vet administered a variety of shots and I resignedly signed my name to the check that would empty our meager bank account. Although he wanted very much to bite the vet, Groucho did not try to take his anger out on Randy. When the ordeal was over, we went home and my husband put Groucho in the spare bathroom. The vet had told us not to handle the dog. We didn't ask why.

For the first few days, I made sure that Randy did all the caretaking. I refused to have anything to do with the little mutt, reasoning that if I didn't interact with him, I could find him a home as soon as he was well. We already had three dogs and a like number of cats, and we were poor. Dirt poor. Half the time we didn't have enough money for gas to heat our mobile home. Sometimes, we didn't have enough money for gasoline to make the 320-mile round trip required to pick up Randy's children for visitation weekends. It was insane to take on the responsibility of another dog, especially one that needed expensive medical care.

Every evening, Randy applied ointment to Groucho's ruined skin. The dog was practically bald. The flesh hung on his frame like an ill-fitting suit, wrinkling his face and making him look a hundred years old. His ears were the biggest thing about him. Upright and long, the ears looked like they belonged on a fawn. Groucho's hairless and wrinkled tail resembled something only a possum could be of, and he had short, baggy-looking legs. But those eyes! He would sit in Randy's lap every night, quietly basking in the attention, and looking at me as though he could not understand why I ignored him. Or worse, as if he did understand.

When we took Groucho to the vet for his follow-up visit, the doctor lectured Randy sternly about holding the dog too much. He never did explain why we shouldn't, and by that time Groucho's mange was nearly gone and he was beginning to gain weight. He was growing more lively, too, and occasionally sat in his lonely bathroom cell barking sadly until we caved in and let him out.

So we ignored the advice of the vet and Randy held Groucho in his lap every night, stroking the stubbly hair on his head, rocking him to sleep, feeding him dog treats, and talking constantly. We kept the puppy in the bathroom whenever we were away from the house, but as soon as either of us got home, the plaintive barking began and did not stop until we freed him from his prison.

When Groucho realized that I was not going to make the first move, he turned on the charm. This dog was no fool. He seemed to know that I would ultimately be the one to decide his fate, and he played me like a virtuoso. He became a watchdog, listening from his little prison for any strange noise so he could bark to warn me, let me know he was on the job. He became my adoring fan, paying rapt attention to my every move, even when he was sitting in Randy's lap. He made it clear that he was overjoyed to see me.

A person's got to live up to her dog's expectations, you know?

Before long, Groucho was paroled from the bathroom. Within about 24 hours, my edict against allowing him into the bedroom died a quick and horrible death.

I was adamant about one thing. The dog was never, ever going to get on the bed. He could sleep on the nicely carpeted floor in the bedroom, but that was it.

Randy and I used to sleep spoon-fashion. Notice I said used to. The first night that little mutt was allowed into the bedroom, he jumped on the bed and climbed over me to lie on top of us, then wriggled and pushed until he insinuated himself between me and Randy. From that night on, my darling husband has slept spoon fashion with Groucho, not me. They share a pillow, they share the covers, and they snore in elegant harmony.

Groucho loves most other animals, and has had several pets of his own, including a bird, a ferret, and his favorite cat, McDuff (named during my Shakespeare-obsessed days). Duffy, otherwise known as Dufus, was declawed and neutered, but far from docile.

He and Groucho "fought" regularly, tussling and rolling around. One or the other usually started it, but sometimes we did.

"Kill Dufus," we'd say, and as Groucho leaped to the attack, Duffy gave us the most disgusted look a cat is capable of. Groucho used his dense mass and barrel chest to bowl over his opponent, giving him the upper "paw."

I wish I had a photo of Groucho and his pet ferret, Dexter. They liked to wrestle, too, but of course, the difference in size made horseplay dangerous. Groucho took the advantage at first, naturally, but then he always fell over on his back, helpless beneath the "ferocious" attack of a few ounces of ferret. From the growling and snarling noises those two made, you'd have thought they were killing each other, especially when Dexter went for Groucho's throat. A few minutes later, the pair was usually sound asleep together on the floor.

The people we bought Dex from said he'd had his shots. I wish we'd checked, because Dexter died at the age of one from distemper. Groucho was at his side through the difficult days of illness while we tried desperately to nurse Dexter back to health, and when we buried Dex under a hibiscus beside the house, Groucho attended the funeral and spent days grieving.

He grieved when Duffy died at the age of ten, and when Tiggy, the one-eyed killer Chihuahua we inherited died early in 2001. Groucho and Harpo usually accompanied us everywhere. Grouch knows what death is, and we knew he'd fret if Harpo simply disappeared. When Harpo was killed, we showed Grouch the body. He recoiled in obvious horror, and we hated having done it, but we knew that this way, Groucho would not think Harpo was lost and wear himself out for days and days trying to find him. They'd been together for a decade, and Harpo's death was hard on all of us. Harpo's death was especially hard on me, but our next tragedy broke our Groucho's heart: Zeppo, Groucho's son, and Chico, Zeppo's mother, died of antifreeze poisoning. Groucho loved Chico, but he doted on his son, and the feeling was mutual. I don't think Groucho ever really got over Zeppo's death.

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